


Home Is Only a Feeling

by jasmiinitee



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Character Study, First Dates, Foster Family, Gen, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Peter Jakes centric, a what if kinda scenario, aka why the heck did he stay in oxford and join the police after what he went through, all in all Little Pete is a surprisingly well-adjusted guy later on, and the foster family's son too probably that's an even bigger oops, but also like getting friends and getting to see what normal life is like, filling holes in canon like we do, for at least a few years, going from institutions to a family wanting to foster a teenager, like crushing on your foster mum oops, maybe some a little less healthy coping mechanisms, no Morse here actually at all, part time jobs, past emotional abuse, rating teen for those, school bullying, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 21:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmiinitee/pseuds/jasmiinitee
Summary: Mr Ernest Reason and Mrs Hazel Reason. Two very regular respectable people with two very regular respectable children in a very regular, respectable two-storey home on the main street in Botley, maybe even one of the nicest new houses there.And, of course, now Peter was there. Peter Jakes. Standing in a small room at the back of the house, behind the kitchen, by a small bed that was definitely going to get too short for his legs at some point.





	1. Keys (First Night with the Reasons)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fitzrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/gifts).

> this has been brewing in my files for a while, just felt like writing something a little kinder for him in between where he came from and where he ended up before he finally got his happier ending - let's pretend that Happy Families are a real thing, for his sake.  
there will be a few different points in time to look at, all through a bit of a different angle, and this is probably going to be a forever wip based on when the inspiration strikes me.
> 
> we're fourteen right now, freshly out of Blenheim Vale and probably some short temporary institution spots after that.

Mr Ernest Reason and Mrs Hazel Reason. Two very regular respectable people with two very regular respectable children in a very regular, respectable two-storey home on the main street in Botley, maybe even one of the nicest new houses there - and there weren’t that many yet, though they weren’t the only new home owners. Daughter Lucy was the younger of their children, not yet in school, and son Bernard was the older, just finished with it, planning to move away soon, but working at the canning factory where his father was a production manager.

And, of course, now Peter was there. Peter Jakes. Standing in a small room at the back of the house, behind the kitchen, by a small bed that was definitely going to get too short for his legs at some point. The room must have been an old cupboard for garden tools at some point, because why else would you have a lock in the door, but Peter didn’t care, because it was still quite a nice and spacious one, for him at least. He didn’t take up much space.

The bed in the room was the best bed he’d had in years, even though Peter hadn’t had the chance to test it out yet, because when Mr Reason had showed it to him, he had said: ‘That’s going to be yours for as long as you stay with us, lad, in your new home.’ 

His. Not that it was _ their _ bed, one that he could stay in while he was a guest in _ their _ house. He had a bed that was his for as long as he needed. 

He also had a suitcase, a small one. He didn’t own a lot of things, so they all fit there all right, his clothes and the comb and all. He had a pair of running shoes, small ones too, but he didn’t want to say anything because they were his and he didn’t want to be any trouble the first thing he was brought in.

It was the best room he’d ever had, because there was a nice window that was easy to open and close again if he wanted to see the garden, and nice curtains to draw shut if he didn’t, and there was even a small desk with a set of drawers under it, that he could read and write his homework at when he would start school again at Botley. 

And it was all his.

‘That’s your room now, Peter. One is for the front door, the other for your room.’ Mr Reason put the keys in his hand and clapped him on the shoulder.

He didn’t say a word about how bony or unkempt Peter was, or how he was a lost cause and only here to be kept out of crime and loitering and bad habits, and should be careful and behave himself and stay out of trouble. (How he deserved a beating or a lesson or a round outside or a little talk. Just a talk. A ride in the car and then a little talk.)

It was the best room he'd ever had because it was all his and it had a window he could open into the garden and a door he could close, and Mr Reason left the door open when he left, and Mrs Reason called out from the kitchen that was between his room and the hall, and said: ‘When you’ve unpacked your things, Peter, could you come and help me with the dinner, dear?’

He listened closely for a minute, not sure if he should have said something. He didn’t have a lot to unpack. He didn’t exactly want to unpack his suitcase either, in case something should have happened and he had to pick it up again. 

Mrs Reason had a calm, chirping kind of tone. ‘Take your time, there’s no rush. It’s still early.’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ Peter said. He would help if she said so.

‘You should come here half past, I think,’ Mrs Reason called out, a warm voice from somewhere in the kitchen, and Peter was in his own little room. ‘That sounds like quite enough time to get your things straight, doesn’t it?’

‘Of course ma’am,’ Peter said, and no one came out of the kitchen to tell him nothing more, and he closed the door of his room, and took out the key. He could feel his cheeks warming up and his hands shaking.

Nothing happened. No one came.

And then he locked the door, and again, nothing happened. He squeezed his keys hard in his big and clumsy and bony hand, and it hurt a little, but it was all right, because his eyes got wet anyway and then he wept. 

Peter stumbled back from his door and sat down on his bed, and he cried, and he didn’t want to cry and he didn’t know why he cried because he shouldn’t have been crying when nothing was wrong. But he did, so he cried as quietly as he could. It was his room and the door was locked and the curtain was drawn, so no one could see him cry anyway and tell him to be better and be a man and stop being so difficult and disobedient when he was supposed to go to kitchen and help Mrs Reason.

He had a set of keys of his own and they were biting his palm but at least they were his and maybe he was only crying because it hurt a little, and the blankets were the best he’d ever had, because they were so heavy and warm that they almost made him feel better when he drew them around his shoulders and over his head to try and keep quiet and not to get in trouble. 

He was going to be fifteen soon and he felt so stupid for crying like a child, but luckily he didn’t have to cry for long before he managed to stop. Not too long, at least, not so long that he would have been late from the kitchen.

After wiping his cheeks dry, Peter got up and made the bed again. He looked through the empty drawers but he didn’t take anything out of his suitcase. He would do that tomorrow if the room was still his by then. 

And the day after he would go to school and the day after he would try to ask if the Botley post office could give him a job, sometimes at least, on the weekends or the afternoons. And he would help in the kitchen all days after that if Mrs Reason asked him to and help washing the car if Mr Reason asked him to, and help watching after little Lucy if Bernard Reason asked him to.

Peter straightened his shirt. He combed his hair and wiped his face dry one last time, hoping that it wasn’t too red, and kept a firm hold of the keys all the while he did that. It was silly, of course, but he didn’t want to lose them when he’d just got them. He had sometimes lost things accidentally, or forgot them somewhere when he was meant to keep them, and he knew it wasn’t something a young man ought to do with things given to him. He didn’t want to lose the keys because they were his.

‘Mrs Reason?’ he called out after he’d unlocked and opened the door. He stepped out and closed it and walked past the garden door to the kitchen, chin up, trying not to fiddle with his hands or the keys.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Mrs Reason said. She smiled to him, quickly, before motioning him in and going back to her stove. Everything in the kitchen was yellow and white and faded red, and it was the nicest kitchen Peter had ever seen.

‘Would you peel the potatoes, Peter? I’ve already washed them. There’s a knife by the bowl.’

‘Yes, Mrs Reason.’

‘Thank you, dear. Do wash your hands first, and put those keys away. You don’t need them for cooking.’

‘Yes, Mrs Reason.’


	2. Flowers (First Night with the Reasons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following right from chapter one.

Mrs Reason kept nice flowers by the dining room window in little white pots. They were very pink, but because the room was otherwise very brown and warm, they fit there all right. There was a little pink doily on the side table by the window, too. And a white watering can.

Peter was setting the dining table while Mrs Reason was preparing the meal for tea, but he knew that he didn’t feel as happy about it as he should have. He was a little scared. He didn’t know which seat was going to be his, and the plates and glasses and all looked very nice and not at all cheap. He was actually afraid that he was going to break something, and he didn’t want to. Mrs Reason had told him to help with the table, not to cause trouble and break things while doing so.

‘It’s very good to have another pair of hands around since Bernard is gone more often. Did you meet him yet?’ she’d asked, and Peter had shook his head.

‘Not today, ma’am,’ he’d said, hoping that he wasn’t going to drop the plates she gave him. Mrs Reason turned back to the stove in her apron and shook her head.

‘That boy. Well, I’m sure he'll be around for tea. It will be nice for you two to get to talk to each other a bit, won’t it.’

Peter nodded, because he didn’t want to disagree.

Bernard Reason was very big and tall. Peter had noticed it when Bernard had been around with his father to meet him last week. Kind of big. Welsh-looking. Looked like he played rugby. He and Peter hadn’t said much to each other, because Peter hadn’t had the guts to open his mouth, and Bernard hadn’t looked like he had anything to say to Peter. To be fair, Peter didn’t think he would have said much to himself if he was Bernard Reason, either.

It was autumn, and Peter was a bit scared of the school he would be going to. He hadn’t been in a school in a few years, at least not in one of those ordinary schools where all the ordinary kids went to.

He didn’t miss the place. Not one bit. But he missed the boys a bit, anyway. They were a bit mean sometimes, and some were very odd, a little funny in the head, but they had been there, and they had been his friends, and if someone couldn’t sleep, someone else had made up a story, or wrestled a bit, or if it was Benny he had even found a torch or a candle or been very careful about the little lamp on the drawer, and made a show of the shadows he could make with his hands.

(And one of them was dead, but Peter didn’t want to think about it. And maybe it wasn’t so anyway, he couldn’t know, and it wasn’t his fault anyway and he hadn’t meant to do anything wrong and it had all been bad after that and he was just so happy to be out of there finally after so so long.)

He stood for a moment by the window with the pretty flowers and frowned at them. He could feel his eyebrows scrunch with how hot and tight his face felt again. Kind of like he was about to cry again.

His stupid eyebrows. They were growing really thick and black nowadays and he felt silly, and the stupid woman who had told the Reasons about him had told him not to scowl because it made him look ill-mannered and rude. He hadn’t even been scowling. He would have had much reason to do so, and he hadn’t. He'd been so nervous he hadn’t made any face at all, because he hadn’t known how he felt.

But even if he didn’t know anyone, even if he would never see George and Benny anymore in his life, and even if it wasn’t a nice school, he would go. (He would go because anything was better than where he’d been and he didn’t want to go back.)

Actually, he knew that the school wasn’t that nice, because Mr and Mrs Reason had said that they weren’t going to pay for anything too posh. It was just the closest local school. The mean old hag who had told them about him had said that he wasn’t clever enough for one of the better ones anyway, just to get him through secondary was more than good enough for him, because he was headed for an assembly line or a building site or a lorry company.

Peter had to agree. He didn’t even know what they did in those nice schools. They had geography books and everything in schools for boys like him too, didn’t they. He knew where France was, and Ireland, and London. It had to have been something very difficult, and frankly, something very useless that they taught in Grammar schools. They even taught grammar in regular schools, so.

And they said that if he was impossible and put up a row and stealed things, then he would go somewhere else. He wasn’t going to do that. As soon as Mr and Mrs Reason had asked him if he had good manners like he seemed to have, he'd agreed, and he really hadn’t been scowling then.

He wasn’t bad. He wanted to be a man and do things the right way, because he didn’t want to go back there ever again.

Peter heard Mrs Reason’s footsteps in the hall. He stopped staring at the flower pots and chairs around the table - very nice chairs, definitely nicer than he’d ever seen, the back was wood and the seat was padded in each one.

‘Peter?’ She didn’t enter the dining room, but he heard her call for him. ‘Would you also set the cutlery? You do know which way the forks and knives go, don’t you.’

‘Yes, Mrs Reason.’

She gave him a smile when Peter got back to the kitchen door, and it was even warmer than the first few he'd seen. ‘That’s a good lad. I’m sure Mr Reason will be back soon, and Bernard, too. You might come and stir the pie filling, afterwards, while I go upstairs and wake Lucy up. She hasn’t met you yet.’

Peter tried to return the smile. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Peter, you’re being a great help,’ Mrs Reason said, and Peter got so flustered that he could only nod before he took the forks and knives from her, careful not to drop any, and went back to finish setting the table.

He didn’t really think he was doing that well, not well by far, but he found that he really really liked the praise.

He would help Mr and Mrs Reason, and he would go to school, and he would ask for a job at the post office, and maybe he would even make a friend or two sooner or later.

He would be a man, and he would work, and one day he would get a nice house of his own. Maybe even as nice as the Reasons had. Maybe even a car like Mr Reason had. And some day he could buy himself a nice new pair of shoes. 

If he worked hard and was good enough of a help for the Reasons, maybe he could spend the money as he saw fit quite soon, and then he would save it, and get new shoes soon, too, and not after a long year or two or three. The thought made Peter smile to himself a little bit, when he moved past the window again to go around the dining table.

He saw it from the window, past the cream white curtains and the pink flowers whose name he didn’t know. A police car drove past the house, along the street, on its way somewhere.

The forks and knives and all dropped from Peter’s hands with a clatter that sounded so so loud to him, and he didn’t want to be making that noise, and he didn’t want to hear the noise either.

He dropped to his knees to pick the forks and knives up again but his hands shook too much, and when he got up again he bumped his clumsy shoulder against the side table, and dropped the forks again when he tried to keep the watering pot from falling over. Peter turned it upright quickly. Some water spilled over the pink doily, and down on the carpet, and he stared at it all and shoved his hand into his pocket.

The keys were still there, and he held onto them tightly, when Mrs Reason’s warm voice called from the kitchen again: ‘Is everything all right in there, Peter?’

No. It wasn’t all right. 

But it was an accident, honestly, and Peter hadn’t meant to make a mess but there was water everywhere and the cutlery were strewn about on the carpet, and he couldn’t move at all. Peter let out a sob that hurt his chest, and then his breath caught in his throat like a hand gets caught in tangled hair.

Peter stumbled out of the dining room because he wanted to get away from the window, past the stairs in the hall, back to the kitchen, and his heart was hammering in his throat and he couldn’t see or hear a thing, and then he pressed his hands against his face and grit his teeth and bit on his tongue, because he just didn’t want to start crying again.

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t say anything when Mrs Reason turned around from the stove and asked him: ‘What is going on? Peter!’

He wasn’t bad, he wasn’t doing it to be difficult, he was going to behave and he was going to get a job and he wasn’t going to be any trouble for them please, please, just _ please_, he didn’t want to go back. But he couldn’t say it out loud. His whole face was burning with how hard his tears wanted to swell out and he was so angry at himself.

‘Peter, what is it with you?’ Mrs Reason wiped her hands dry with a tea towel. She came closer, and Peter flinched and started to cry. ‘Young man, what’s this about, now?’

‘I didn’t mean to do it, Mrs Reason, honest,’ Peter promised. It was hard to speak when his throat was so wet and his face was so hot.

‘Pardon?’ Mrs Reason pulled away from him and Peter started to cry even harder. ‘Peter, What did you do?’

‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ Peter said again, but because he was crying at the same time it just sounded like a whine, and Mrs Reason must not have heard him. She ran, too, and he heard her steps as she rushed into the dining room.

He had been doing well, and even Mrs Reason had just said so. And now he wasn’t. Now he was making a mess of himself and the dining room too and the policeman was there again, and he would be taken back away, please, no, _ please_.

If he went back into his room and locked the door, would they take him away? It was his room, he had the keys, but he couldn’t move. He knew he wasn’t supposed to hide after breaking something, but he really really wanted to hide.

Peter held the keys in his hands, squeezing at them, and he heard Mrs Reason’s quick steps in the hall again. He sat down and wept. He didn’t want to get hit or left without the meal that he’d just been trying to help to make, but he knew he’d done bad. He should not have been crying. He should have got told off and larruped for being so clumsy and he had to stop crying. He was no good.

‘Peter,’ Mrs Reason said. She walked up to a foot or two from him and bent her knees to get down to his level. He stared at her brown shoes, and he tried to breathe without crying or hiccuping. Mrs Reason was so quiet and he was so afraid of what her next words were going to be.

‘Peter, get up from the floor,’ she said. 

Peter nodded, and he did as he was told and tried to wipe his face dry with his shirt sleeves. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Reason,’ he said, and he really meant it, but Mrs Reason just told him to shush and gave his arms a swat, and Peter dropped the keys on the floor with a jingle and pressed his arms against his sides.

‘No, I- Peter dear,’ Mrs Reason said, clicking her tongue like he was being silly. She pressed a serviette into his hand, one of those he was supposed to be putting down at the table. ‘Just don’t use your sleeves for that.’

Peter stood against the kitchen wall and dried his eyes and nose into the serviette. Mrs Reason was standing a few feet away from him in her dress and apron and brown shoes and pin curls. It all made him feel sick to his guts. The worst thing about it all was that he knew a moment ago she’d still believed that he was good for something. And now she was just disappointed.

Mrs Reason walked away from the kitchen and left Peter there.


	3. Cars (First Night with the Reasons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final of the first three.

‘Peter?’ Mrs Reason called from the dining room. ‘Could you come here?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Peter was too scared to try and run into his room, but he picked the keys up before doing as he was told.

Mrs Reason stood between the dining table and the small table by the window, wiping the table dry with a towel. Peter stood in the doorway and stared at her as she worked. She bent down and picked up the forks and knives that he’d dropped under the dining table, and said: ‘Stop that crying, now, Peter. It’s just water, my dear. Nothing’s broken.’ She gave him a smile over the table.

It was probably the nicest smile he’d ever seen. Peter thought it must have been, because he couldn’t remember ever getting one like that when he should have got slapped in the face or over the head or beaten with a stick.

‘It’s all right. It’s just water, isn’t it,’ Mrs Reason said. Peter couldn’t say anything, so he just gave her a small nod. He thought he’d broken something, at least knocked one plate or glass off the table. But they were all still there. The pink flowers sat on the window sill.

‘I saw the car,’ Peter managed to say, and his voice broke in the middle of it and sounded silly, it was starting to do that more often nowadays, but Mrs Reason didn’t laugh. She just turned to look out of the window.

A bright ray of afternoon sunshine made the air look dotted with little spots of light, and it made her golden hair stand out against the window. Peter held his breath.

‘The car? It’s been there all this time,’ Mrs Reason said, and Peter felt his stomach turn again, before she added: ‘Ernest didn’t have need for it for such a short trip. You’re not afraid of the car, are you?’

She smiled to him again, and Peter shook his head. He took a step to the right to see out of the window over the table. It was just Mr Reason’s motor car, a very regular and nice one. Green, too, not black.

‘No, I saw the police car.’ Peter held onto his keys with both hands. ‘I saw it and then I dropped the forks and everything, and I knocked the water pot over. I thought the coppers was going to come and make me leave again.’

Mrs Reason gave him a long look and folded her hands. ‘Insofar I know anything about the police,’ Mrs Reason said, ‘They’re here to help people. You don’t have to be afraid. They were probably on their way to help someone.’

‘They’ve never helped me,’ Peter said.

Mrs Reason was quiet for a moment, but her voice was still warm when she spoke again: ‘What do you mean, Peter?’

He was angry.

‘I mean a copper’s never helped me!’ he said. Mrs Reason looked like she didn’t understand him at all, but Peter didn’t even know where to start, and his hands were twitchy again, and it was still hard to breathe. 

‘It was just my mother and me and then it was the mister and the twins, and then they called the police, the lady from next door, and then I bloody went away! And then I was there. And I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want none of it. I didn’t do it.’ 

He hadn’t set the fire to the car. He hadn’t meant to say that Big Petey did. He didn’t say it was so, but he did, but they had known it already.

Mrs Reason looked at him. ‘All right.’

‘I didn’t do none of it,' Peter said. He didn’t want to go back.

‘I believe you,’ Mrs Reason said, even if she didn’t know what he’d done. Peter looked up at her again. She looked like she really meant it anyway, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. (He wasn’t really sure that he was telling the truth, either. He just didn’t want to get in trouble again.)

But Peter did realise how rude he was being, and he felt ashamed of himself, and if he was angry and acted out, then she would get angry too, and who knew what she would have been like when she was angry. Peter never wanted to find out. ‘I’m sorry Mrs Reason,’ he said.

‘It was just water. There’s nothing to cry about.’

‘No, Mrs Reason.’ Peter shook his head.

‘All right. Now, Peter,’ She walked around the table and pushed his arm gently. ‘Let’s go back, the dining room is all set. You can keep watch over the pie filling, like I told you to, and I’ll go and wake Lucy up.’

Peter nodded to Mrs Reason and walked before her to the kitchen. She looked at his hands for a long time. Peter looked at his hands too, and they looked too big for his skinny wrists as they always did, nowadays, but he hadn’t noticed the red stripes pressed into his fingers and palms from the keys.

‘Could you put those away, Peter? You can keep them in your pocket if you want to,’ Mrs Reason asked gently, and Peter couldn’t look at her anymore. He felt very silly and childish. He was fourteen already and she spoke to him like he was five.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, put the keys back into his pocket, and he set his jaw and narrowed his eyes to keep from crying any more. Then he tried to blink the tears away instead. He didn’t want to look like he was scowling.

Mrs Reason gave him a big wooden spoon. ‘There you go. I’ll be back soon. Just stir it every now and then so it doesn’t burn and get stuck onto the bottom of the pot. Can you do that for me?’

‘Of course, Mrs Reason.’ Peter nodded. He could do that.

‘Thank you, Peter.’ She walked away, and soon he heard her steps go up the stairs.

Don’t use your sleeves. It was just water. Just stir the pie filling every now and then. He could do that.

Peter could do that, and the day after tomorrow he would go to school again, and he would help with everything that he could. And if he could keep from being any trouble until then, maybe Mr and Mrs Reason would let him stay. And he could buy himself new shoes, a pair that fit him.

The front door opened somewhere ahead of the dining room and sitting room. Bernard Reason had a voice as big as his shoulders were wide, and he filled the whole hall with it: ‘Ma! I’m home. Ran into the old man on my way, he’s got stuck talking with Mr Patterson. Should be here in a minute!’

‘I’m upstairs, Bernard!’

Peter heard him go up the stairs two steps at a time. He stirred the pie filling, trying to do it well, though he wasn’t really sure what it looked like when it was going to burn.

The Reasons had the nicest house he’d ever seen, and maybe it was nice to be there.


End file.
